


Heaven In Hiding

by Clonesy



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Desk Sex, F/F, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-26
Updated: 2018-01-26
Packaged: 2019-03-09 18:46:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13487514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clonesy/pseuds/Clonesy
Summary: When finding herself at the mercy of Widowmaker, can Angela trust herself to stay in control...or will she let herself be lost to the woman she once knew?





	Heaven In Hiding

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._

Water droplets. Constant and echoing. They keep time in a place where time is impossible to keep. It’s too dark to see and too quiet to judge if there’s the rabble of people coming from outside or just the groaning shift of machinery.

The only thing that’s known is the dark, the quiet, and the burning roughness of restraints that Angela feels around her wrists. She is alone. Or if she isn’t, her host isn’t welcome in letting themselves be  known.

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._

The water, she thinks, is coming from the ceiling. Perhaps a leaky pipe or a hole in the roof. The building she’s in must be old, decrepit: The smell of dust supports that. Her clothes are hopefully same as the ones she wore in the last mission where _it_ happened – she can only assume because she can feel the stiffness of her moulded armour, painful now that she’s been stuck in it for… days? Weeks?

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._

The dripping, it bothers Angela. Sure,  it’s constant and could be considered soothing in this situation where she’s cold and hungry and very, very tired… but all the same, it’s the only stimulus there is, and it’s un-ending and every _drip_ just feels like bullet being fired. So loud. Merciless.  

Angela shuffles, sitting to kneel; praying to some god – _any_ God – that might listen. She misses her team. She misses Tracer, and Winston, D.Va, and Pharah.  She can imagine them, scrambling every bit of manpower Overwatch has, searching endlessly: everyone losing their shit knowing that if she isn’t found, all hell will break loose. Angela tries to be humble but she knows her team stands little chance without her knowledge. They need her, and she needs them.

She sobs.

“Bitte… _Please,_ ” She begs. “Let me go!”

Her cries fall into the empty darkness.

_Drip._

_Drip._

_Drip._  

“Ugh, so pathetic.” A voice says, cutting through the darkness. Its accent is rich; foreign, even against Angela’s own. There’s the flickering of lights then the room comes to life. Angela is blinded for a second, turning her head away, grimacing as her eyes adjust.  

A moment later she looks up. She takes in the room, and then the figure stood at the door.

_Amélie._

Angela’s jaw tightens as she swallows the lump forming in her throat. She hasn’t seen that face in years. It’s different... with its blue hue and the stain of years as a killing machine beginning to show. At only 33, Amélie still looks young but at a glance, Angela could mistake her for someone much older.  The Widowmaker had felt like a myth to Angela - just a codename much like her own, but face to face with her once-friend she knows it’s very much real.

“It’s… it’s you.” Is all Angela manages to stutter. 

“Oui, I thought it would be important I visited our little guest.” Widowmaker sneers, “Of course, it’s a lot of effort coming all the way down here but, eh, c’est la vie.” She adds, sighing heavily. She walks coolly up to a chair, dusts it off and sits.

And then she stares, cold and analytical.

Angela stares back.

She starts, “What am I doing here?”

Widowmaker quirks an eyebrow.

“You expect me to just tell you that?”

“You’re Widowmaker, correct? The perfect assassin? I see little reason in keeping me alive seeing as you’re trying to kill us all off anyway. Why not kill me? If you want me to fight, I won’t. I refuse.” Angela says, adamant.

Widowmaker gives a short sharp laugh. It’s more comparable to a cackle really, and it’s endlessly ominous, no likely helped by the echo of the room. She smirks.

“Oh Mercy… always the pacifist.”

“It doesn’t need to end in violence.” Angela retorts.

“À bon? Ah, well, it is good I had something else planned for you then.”

Angela frowns. What could she possibly want from her? Not healing… she’s clearly in good shape, and Reaper has his soul absorption. Using her as bait for the others wouldn’t be necessary either, not with the power of holograms and Talon’s new recruit’s penchant for technology.

It doesn’t make sense.

“What is it?” Angela finally asks. The dread of whatever answer may be given sits heavy in her stomach.

Widowmaker makes this her cue to stand up again and saunter over, carefully crouching to Angela’s level. She takes her by the jaw; digs her in.

Widowmaker says lowly, “I want you to make me feel alive.”

Angela shudders, her breath catching in her throat. The request is obscene; impossible… though, she fears what will happen should she voice that fact. Amélie listened to reason but Angela holds belief that Widowmaker will not.

“Amélie… I can’t do that. I can’t medically speed your heart up again.”  Angela replies earnestly. Whilst probably unlikely, she swears there’s a softening disappointment on Widowmaker’s face, as if she reached through the programming but it’s gone in an instant, replaced with a predatory glare.

“I did not mean _medically_ , chérie.” Widowmaker replies.

Angela’s eyes widen at the implication.

_Oh._

Angela scrambles to come up with a reply but with the sting of Widowmaker’s nails, the icy feel to her grip, and the dangerous aura that emanates from the other woman’s presence, she finds herself stuck. Angela’s uncertainty – unfortunately -  causes her to flush bright red from both fear, and embarrassment.  

This is not the kind of thing military training prepares you for.

“I… I did not think you... that we…” she gabbles.

“What? That I remembered that? What we did behind Gerard’s back?” Widowmaker queries tauntingly, “Perhaps he was the love of my life, but monogamy only goes so far, Angela.”

“You had Lena too. Why not kidnap her instead?”

Widowmaker’s grip on Angela’s jaw tightens. Angela takes it for the threat it is, accepting that Lena is a not a subject to be addressed further. Some scars are just too deep, after all.

However, the extra pressure on Angela’s neck does something else too, something unintentional. The roughness in Widowmaker’s grasp is reminiscent of times gone by. It feels dangerous; it feels _exciting,_ and it awakens an undeniable throb between Angela’s legs. It’s unwelcome, inappropriate and knows, insane… and yet it feels pleasurable against all the pain.

Angela takes a stiff breath. She can’t do this.

_Can she?_

“I know you, Angela. You want this.” Widowmaker says as she curls her free hand around Angela’s, loosening the restraints just enough for some wiggle room.

“You haven’t known me in years.” Angela replies coldly. She goes to answer the latter half of Widowmaker’s words but knows it will only sound as if she’s lying to herself, and so with teeth clenched, she stays quiet.

Widowmaker does not take the given reply kindly. Her expression turns to a seething scowl.

In a swift motion Widowmaker pulls Angela up to her feet and drags her to a nearby desk With a swipe of the arm its contents belong to the floor, and then with a push Angela’s body belongs to the desk's cold surface. The folded-up wings of Angela’s Valkyrie suit make a ‘clunk’ as they’re removed and tossed aside. Widowmaker removes them with a practised understanding of the design, as if it was nothing; as if she’d done it previously only a day ago. Angela doesn’t believe – _can’t believe –_ that she herself remembers this process but as her body is freed of its restrictive costume it feels nothing but familiar. Safe almost, despite the context.

Widowmaker adjusts Angela’s restraints so her arms are held to the table and Angela, too tired to fight and suddenly a little too turned on to argue, accepts her new position.

“I knew asking nicely wouldn’t work. You always enjoyed a bit of struggle and roughness, didn’t you?” Widowmaker recounts.

Angela bites her lip. It’s all too much. If she were to replace this worn-down room with the plushness of her office, and add a little more of a heartbeat to her ill-met companion, it’d be like no time had passed at all. Even back then, their encounters were not for the faint of heart.

She must accept that it’s different now and that this absolutely _cannot_ happen… and yet, she finds herself aching to be touched.

Maybe it’s the length of time without proper food, water or anything for that matter making her crave something tangible. Maybe it’s bitterness at having not been found by her team…maybe Angela considers that she genuinely missed this – missed _her_.

Perhaps everything since that fateful day Amélie disappeared has only been a distraction.

Widowmaker had continued to undress Angela whilst her mind wondered. Now Angela stands with her armour pieces strewn aside and only her two-piece under armour left to keep her body covered. It feels wrong just how right it feels.  

“Your shorts.” Widowmaker comments, tugging at their waistband. Angela wordlessly pulls her hips back from the table so the shorts can be pulled down and once at her feet, she steps out of them. Widowmaker tosses them with the rest of her discarded clothing. Only Angela’s shirt remains, unable to be removed due to the restraints.

In a moment of clarity Angela’s logical brain tells her to stop; to stand up and run, but the snaking caress of a cold hand moving from her ass to her thigh causes all thought to cease as she unwillingly leans into the touch. She feels her body stiffen as she attempts to keep a grip on her arousal, and her sanity.

The latter doing equally as bad as the former.

How has she found herself here so quickly?

“Scheisse" She sighs on the shuddered exhale of her breath.

Widowmaker’s hand weaves through Angela’s hair. With a sharp tug she pulls Angela up, giving no thought to the seething pain it causes.

“I’m sorry, what was that?” she asks sharply.  

Angela stands there, mouth open. She says nothing. The pain shouldn’t turn her on more, but it does. She’s weak, and she’s wet, and absolutely at the mercy of Widowmaker.

“That’s what I thought.”

Widowmaker pushes Angela back down. She turns her attention to Angela’s legs, spreading them just enough for what she needs and then she stops and leans over Angela slightly.  

“Tell me what you want.”

Angela releases a ragged breath.

She can’t say it.

Not aloud. To acknowledge this need inside of her within her own mind is bearable, but to even consider letting it become true consent; true handing over of power? It is a leap Angela fears she can never return from. She’s been largely silent so far, knowing she cannot argue her innocence should they be caught or recorded on security cams. To keep it dubious, lines blurred and limits unspoken, Angela hopes that after this, she may walk away without a target on her back.

Though she feels her resolve breaking. The throbbing between her legs threatens to break any silence of which she holds with a slippery grasp.

Then, Widowmaker spanks her ass cheek. Angela jolts at its and gasps.

“Say it.” Widowmaker demands.

Another spank, harder than the first. The pain is seething. Angela writhes, hissing and cursing under her breath. Her hands ball into fists, nails indenting themselves within her palms, but they give no distraction to the words that are ready to desperately fall from her mouth...

Without warning, suddenly, she breaks.

In a needy whisper, her voice travels into the room.

“Fuck me… _please_.”

There’s a brief pause before the slightest hint of a smirk plays Widowmaker’s lips. She smooths her hand over Angela’s ass, soothing the red marks in an uncharacteristically gentle manner.

“That wasn’t so hard now, was it?” She says to Angela, dipping her hand down to Angela’s sex.

Widowmaker’s fingers run through her folds, meeting slick arousal and sensitivity, judging from Angela’s small moan and gentle grind of her hips. There’s an urgency; an attempt to be better acquainted with the deft digits she hadn’t felt in so long.

Conflicted or not, Angela is quick to submit.

Widowmaker circles Angela’s clit once, twice, three times. In return she earns a gasp; a trembled breath; another small moan.

Widowmaker’s lips curl upwards into a coquettish smile, and her voice practically purrs as she puts them close to Angela’s ear.

She asks, “You like that, hm?”

Angela doesn’t respond. She only gives a slight nod of her head.

Widowmaker continues, altering and pressure, each flick of Angela’s clit different from the last so there’s no rhythm; no consistency that Angela can rely on. She hums and moans, quietly begging for more, for less, for “ _Oh!_ _Right there_.” But there is no amount of pleading and whimpering that will make her companion play fair.

And unfortunately, Angela knows she is not in a position to demand.  

Though she had fought with herself about letting this begin, she now finds herself hungry and insatiable against her better judgement. Though this is not the Amélie she once knew, those deft and dainty hands still play a sinful symphony against her burning skin as if their song had not been lost to time and terror and tyranny. Cold as Widowmaker’s hands are, there is nothing but heat and unadulterated pleasure felt from their touch. It pools in Angela’s abdomen and makes her shudder.

Throughout this, Widowmaker simply watches Angela. Her face is difficult to see from behind, but the strain in her toned arms twitching under her shirt and the graceless way her hands writhe to hold onto something is nothing short of extraordinary. How someone so full of insistent intransigence can come undone so quickly is amusing, satiating… mesmerising, perhaps.

Widowmaker does not dwell on it: not the desperate expression she catches glimpses of as Angela turns her head, or the soft curves of her body. There’s no time to think about the moans that escape from gently parted lips, nor the grind of Angela’s hips against her own hand. There is only this: crude fucking against the table and the ravenous need to feel something, _anything_.

And despite her _evident_ lack of dwelling, Widowmaker evens her pace; fingers Angela more rhythmically and allows her some consistency, before slipping two fingers inside her. What follows is a stuttered breath and muttered expletives in a foreign tongue. Widowmaker feels her predatory smirk softening.

For a moment, Amélie doesn’t seem so far away.

Angela feels it. A certain tenderness not there before, accompanying the gentle brush on the small of her back by Widowmaker’s free hand. Even compared to their previous encounters, it’s different… Almost nostalgic in the way those cold fingers trace the curve of her spine. The ghostly feel makes Angela’s hair stand on end, and combined with Widowmaker’s fingers sliding in and out of her? It is simply too much. She cannot take much more.

“A-Amélie.” She gasps out, “I’m… I…”

Widowmaker shushes her, and Angela thinks she’s made a mistake. Instead, it only seems to incentivise Widowmaker more. There is encouragement: hastened strokes on Angela’s clit, coaxing her closer to what is already so near.

 The pressure inside her just builds and builds. Her legs begin to shake, struggling to hold her up.

“Come for me, chérie.” Widowmaker asks.

And she does.

Angela’s orgasm happens like the freefall after ascending above the clouds; back arching as pleasure ripples through her body; her heart pounding in her ears. Her voice sounds hollow in her own head, blocked out by white noise, but she knows she’s moaning and she knows it’s loud. She can’t help it. She _won’t_ help it.  Widowmaker continues to fuck her gently through it and watches as it takes hold of Angela’s every nerve like electricity, making her shudder and whimper and let out small stuttered breaths. Her descent is slow; she does not crash and burn, but simply floats for a moment.

Then everything comes back into focus and Angela’s breathing is stable and her body lies relaxed against desk.

A moment of quiet falls over them both. It’s in this moment that reality begins to settle in the cracks of their wilful bubble of ignorance.

_They are two enemies who just fucked on a desk._

Widowmaker removes her hands from Angela’s body, and the restraints from Angela’s wrists. Where she just felt the warmth of her own beating heart, she now feels coldness leeching back in. The personality setting its roots. Amélie slips away once more, like an old friend. Like Angela herself, she is not something to be held dear. It hurts, having your consciousness fight itself in such a way, but it is not exactly a matter she has a say in.

Widowmaker picks up Angela’s clothes and hands them to her. She then turns away, towards the door she had entered through.

“You are free to go,” She says.

Angela picks herself up, struggling with her under armour shorts as she stumbles after Widowmaker. She aches, and her body begs her to give up, but her feet find flight regardless. It had not been torture like she expected but watching her leave again after what just transpired hurts more than any torture device could.

“Wait! That’s it? You’re leaving?” Angela asks.

She should be afraid.

“After all that? After fucking me like nothing had changed a-and the emotion I saw in your eyes – I saw it! – you’re just leaving?!”

She decidedly isn’t; instead, she’s angry. Pissed off that this happened. That she _let_ this happen without certainty it would change anything.

She sighs, “Don’t you feel anything?”

Widowmaker stops, halted by feeling of Angela’s hand on her arm. She brushes it away quickly and scowls. The programming really cannot be stopped. Somewhere deep inside she can feel Amélie clawing for some control but it’s useless. The façade is too strong, even for someone like Angela to break through.

She thinks maybe one day she could, but not here. Not like this.

This was cruel. Nothing but a distraction. _Selfish_.

Angela stares at her with sad eyes.

“I don’t feel. That’s the point.” Widowmaker says flatly.

She stares back at Angela, her expression empty… but Angela knows. She knows there’s something there.

Widowmaker leaves without another word; Angela sits down to collect her thoughts.  

She stares at the desk where they’d just been.

Everything feels wrong, flipped upside down. She knows she must focus on getting home and getting safe but she can only think about _her_. How she craves that touch now it’s gone, how she wants to be consumed by it.  If Amélie is the forbidden fruit then Angela is Eve and she has introduced a complication regardless of consequence… Her position is compromised should anything be found out. Hell, it’s already compromised from her MIA status.

She rubs at her tired eyes.

Legs struggling, Angela stands and puts her armour back on.

She doesn’t know how she’ll come back from this, or how she can possibly keep her mind from wandering to these moments in future. In truth, Angela does not think she will be able to keep herself from finding pleasure in these memories… but perhaps thinks she can rationalise it. Amélie still exists within Widowmaker, and if there’s a way to bring her out, Angela is sure she can figure it out.

She leaves the room, uncertain of where to go.

She is met with a note, pinned with a sharpened bobby pin stabbed into the wall.

‘ _Go left. Then right. Follow the corridor.’_

Then below it:

‘ _Meet me here again. 17 days._  
_\- A’_

 


End file.
